LITMIR.BIZ

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lad,” said the monk, touching his cowl.

      Bertram did not consider this by any means satisfactory.

      “Well! All said, Father Wilfred, we come back to the first matter. What wouldst thou do an’ thou wert I?”

      “Soothly, that wis I not,” said the illuminator rather drily. “What thou shouldst do an’ thou wert I, might be easier gear.”

      “Well—and that were?”

      “To set claws unto this griffin.”

      “Now, Father Wilfred! My work is not to paint griffins.”

      “What thy work is, do,” replied the monk sententiously.

      “But ’tis sheer idlesse! ’Tis not work at all. It is but to wait till I am called to work.”

      “The waiting is harder than the work,” replied Wilfred, again laying down his pen. “If thou be well assured that waiting is thy work, wit thou that ’tis matter worthy of the wits of angels, for there is no work harder than to wait for God.”

      “But ’tis not work, Father!”

      “If thou so think, thou art not yet master of that art.”

      “Of what art?”

      “Waiting.” Wilfred’s pen pursued its journey for a moment before he added, “Lad, this that I am on is but play and revelry. But the lack thereof—the time passed in awaiting till the lad that enscribeth the text have fresh parchment ready—that is work.”

      Bertram frowned and pursed his lips as if he could not see it.

      “For forty years, Bertram, all the wisdom of the wisest nation in the world was sometime taught unto a man named Moyses. His work was to lead the chosen folk of God into the land that God should give them. But at the end of that forty years, he was but half learned. So for other forty years, he was sent into a wilderness for to keep sheep.”

      “Why, he were past work then!”

      “Nay, he was but then ready for it.”

      “And did he lead the folk after all?”

      “He did so.”

      “And what gave him our Lord for guerdon, when his toil was done?”

      “Was the work no guerdon?” responded Wilfred thoughtfully. “Well, lad, He gave him—a grave in Moab, far away from home and friends and country, and from His land.”

      “Father, what mean you? That was no guerdon!”

      “Then thou wist not that jewels be alway covered with stone-crust, ere the cutter polish them?”

      “Soothly, Father, I can see the stone-crust yonder, but verily mine eyes be too weak to pierce to the gem.”

      “Ah! our eyes be rarely strong enough for that. It taketh God’s eyes many times. They say,”—Wilfred went on dreamily, scanning the white clouds which floated across the blue—“they say, the old writers of the Jews, that this man Moyses died by the kiss of God. Methinks that were brave payment for the grave in Moab. And after all, every man of us must have his grave dug some whither. Is it of heavy moment, mewondereth, whether men delve it in the swamps of Somerset or in the Priory at Langley? God shall see the dust as clear in either; and shall know, moreover, to count it His treasure.”

      “Father Wilfred, where wouldst thou fain be buried?”

      “What matter, lad?”

      “I know where I would:—in the holy minster at Canterbury, nigh unto the tomb of Edward the Prince, that was so great an hero, and not far from the blessed shrine of Saint Thomas the martyr.”

      “Ah!” said the monk with a sigh, “there is a little church among the hills of Cumberland, that I had chosen rather. But the days of my choosing are over. I would have God choose for me.”

      “But that might be the sea, Father Wilfred, or the traitors’ elms (Tyburn.) by London, or the plague dead-pit.”

      “Child! when the Lord cometh with all His saints, there will be no labels on the raised bodies, to note where the dust was found lying.”

      And Wilfred turned back to his desk, and took up his pen. Both were silent for a time; but it was the old monk who resumed the conversation.

      “Thou wouldst fain attain greatness, Bertram,” he said. “Shall I tell thee of two deeds done but this sennight past, that I saw through yonder lattice as I sat at my painting? Go to! I saw, firstly, a poor shepherd lad crossing the green one morrow, on his needful toil, clad in rough russet; and another lad lesser than he, clad in goodly velvets and brave broidery, bade him scornfully thence out of his sight, calling him rascal, fool, lither oaf, and the like noisome words—the shepherd lad having in nowise offended save by his presence. And I say, lad, that was a little deed—the deed of a little soul; a mean, base deed; and he that did it, except God touch his heart, will never be a great man.”

      “But, Father Wilfred! I saw it—it was the Lord Edward; and he is great even now, and like to be greater.”

      “Mark my words, lad—he will never be a great man.”

      Bertram looked as if he thought the proposition incomprehensible.

      “Well, the day thereafter,” pursued Wilfred, “I was aware, in the very same place, of other two lads—bravely clad, though not so brave as he—bearing betwixt them a pail of water, for the easement of an halt and aged wife that might scarce lift it from the ground. And I heard the one say to the other, as they came by this lattice—‘How if some of our fellows see us now?’—with his answer returned—‘Be it so; we do no wrong.’ And I say, boy, that was a great deed, the deed of a great soul; and I look for both those lads to be great men, though I verily think the greater to have been he that was in no wise shamed of his deed.”

      Bertram’s face was crimson, for he very well knew that on this occasion the heroes of Wilfred’s adventure were himself and his friend, Hugh Calverley. He remembered, moreover, that he had felt ashamed, and afraid to be seen, and had taken his share in the act, partly from his own kindness of heart, but partly from a wish to retain Hugh’s good opinion.

      “Shall I tell thee another tale, lad?”

      “Prithee, Father, so do.”

      “Touching greatness in a woman?”

      “By my Lady Saint Mary! can a woman be great?”

      “Methinks, Bertram, she was,” said Wilfred quietly, “But it was not of Saint Mary, nor of any other saint, that I had intent to tell thee, but of one whom no Pope ever took the pain to canonise, and who yet, as methinks, was the greatest woman of whom ever I heard. It may perchance astound thee somewhat, to learn that I am not purely an English man. My mother came from far over seas—from Dutchland, (Germany.) in the dominions of the Duke’s Grace of Austria. And when she was a young maid, at home in her country, that befel of which I am about to tell thee. It happed that in the Court of the Emperor’s Majesty, (Note 1) which at that time was Albright (Albert) the First, was a young noble, by name Rudolph, Count von der Wart. My mother was handmaid unto my Lady Gertrude his wife, and she spake right well of her mistress. A young gentle lady, said she, meek and soft of speech, loving and obedient unto her lord, and in especial shamefaced, shrinking from any public note of herself or any deed she did. This lady had not been wed long time, when the Emperor Albright died. And he died by poison. Some among his following had given it; and his judges sat to try whom. God wot who it were, and assoil (forgive) him! But some men thought that his cousin, Sir Henry of Luxemburg, which was Emperor at after him, had been more in his place at the bar than on the bench. The sentence of the court was that divers men were cast for death. And one of them thus convinced (convicted) was the young Count von der Wart.”

      “But was he not innocent, Father?”

      “He

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